Once out of the cool, dark shadow of the inn, Shanna met the full weight of her folly. The black cloth drew the heat until it scorched her nearly as much as the hot sand beneath her feet. The gown had been cut for chaste modesty and allowed no room for the swell of her breasts. From there down it fell in a straight, loose mass that widened into a full, heavy skirt, which swung as she tried to match Ruark’s gait. His legs were long and the pace faster than she would have walked. In desperation, she seized the skirt and fought to keep it still lest her bosom and hips be scoured raw.
Ruark strode along as if he were enjoying an afternoon stroll. He seized a small branch and with a knife trimmed it until it made a neat walking stick, and as he went along, he aimlessly swatted tufts of grass and hanging twigs. A tuneless whistle wandered from his lips. Apparently he gave no notice to the girl who struggled along in his tracks.
The wide collar chafed her throat, and Shanna started to remove it but found the coarse wool more painful. The starched cuffs slid down against her wrists, and she had to constantly raise an arm to shake them back into place. They entered the village, and the worn pebbles that marked the paths between the squalid shacks were hotter than the sand. She almost moaned with pain, but seeing the careless swing of Ruark’s shoulders, she bit back the urge and vowed to ask no favor of him that might ease her distress.
“He wants me to crawl and beg of him,” Shanna fumed silently. “I will not! I shall not! Though I am worn to bleeding flesh, I will not give him the pleasure of knowing it.”
The sun beat down with a merciless glare from straight overhead. There was no shade, and most of the inhabitants had slunk into their dens to take a siesta in the heat of the day. Beneath a small thatched shelter, a withered, ragged old crone dozed amid stacks of vegetables and fruits. When Ruark roused her to ask for a sample of her wares, she was sorely aggravated, but her temper moderated greatly when she saw the color of his coin. While he and the old woman dickered, Shanna sat on a bale of hemp to ease her burning feet and testily refused Ruark’s offer of a tidbit or two to lunch upon. When they resumed the march, she rose and gritted her teeth with the effort it cost her. Ruark’s pace had slowed as he nibbled on small, ripe plantains and chunks of dry coconut meat, and Shanna had no difficulty staying with him, but she was already much the worse for wear. Sweat began to tickle maddeningly as it traced a slow path down the middle of her back. She wanted desperately to scratch, but her hands were occupied with the skirt and floppy cuffs. When they passed a small tangle of brush, she tore the wristlets off and threw them behind it, careful lest Ruark should see her. It was little comfort, for now the sleeves grew moist with perspiration and clung to her arms with a cloying prickliness.
They marked the end of the beach in one direction and saw the beginning of the swamp on that side. The sun moved in the sky as they retraced their steps to the dock and followed the beach in the opposite direction. It was here that Shanna strayed to wade where the gently lapping water touched the sand. She grimaced at the brief sting of the salt in the myriad tiny cuts and scrapes on her feet. She longed to tear the stupid garment from her body and race out into the lazy sea and stretch her muscles and cleanse her body in its tepid waves. Having slowed, she now found Ruark some distance ahead of her. Reluctantly she raised the damp skirts and ran after him.
Ruark paused upon a small knoll and stood thoughtfully surveying this end of the beach and the steaming mangrove swamp that stretched as far as the eye could see. He heard Shanna approach and turned, a question on his lips, but it died as he found her limping toward him, the heavy skirts flopping about her legs and hobbling her stride. Her face was flushed, and her breath rasped in her throat. Her hair had half fallen from its knot. As she flung herself down upon a small tussock of grass, Shanna glared her anger at him and painfully raised a slim foot to touch the heel from which a thorn protruded.
“Here, let me, Shanna,” he offered, true concern in his tone. He had taken out his knife and would have knelt at her foot.
“Keep away from me.” Her snarl halted him. “You drag me on a tour of this Godforsaken sand pile without proper shoes for my feet or as much as a shade to protect me. Ouch!”
The last came as she pulled the stub of thorn from her heel. Ruark stepped to a low bush and pulled several of its small, narrow leaves, twisting them together until they formed a wet mass.
“Press these to the spot,” he directed. “ ‘Twill sting for a moment, but it draws away the soreness and any poison.”
Shanna did as she was told and nearly shrieked as the searing juices penetrated. Almost immediately, however, the pain began to ebb. In a few moments her heel was numb. Ruark never ceased to amaze her. His resources were completely beyond her ken, and his knowledge seemed full of these small tidbits.